Most memorable Porsche drives
Discussion
I thought it would be fun to read everyone's most memorable Porsche drives.
I'll start with mine:
Summer 2004; 993 C2.
Had just fininshed the Autotrack day at Le Mans around 5pm. I had to get to Chamonix, get keys to the chalet we had booked and get to Geneva airport to pick up my wife and kids by 10 am the next morning.
I had dinner and drove across France - Le Mans to the Alps doesn't have a readily obvious motorway route so i took the A and B roads as the crow flies. I drove for 6 hours and made it Auxerre, booked into a hotel around 1 am and hit the road again around 530am.
That drive was full of tree lined long roads, not a car in sight, orange sunset, windows and sunroof open, warm temeperatures...great drive.
The next day was just as good. Setting off at 530am i made it to Chamonix, dumped my stuff and made it to Geneva airport on time. Great crisp early morning air - even bad coffee at the service stations tasted great - stunning scenery and a lot of miles to cover.
Two days of great driving memories - and thats not including the trackday.
Cheers
Ajit.
I'll start with mine:
Summer 2004; 993 C2.
Had just fininshed the Autotrack day at Le Mans around 5pm. I had to get to Chamonix, get keys to the chalet we had booked and get to Geneva airport to pick up my wife and kids by 10 am the next morning.
I had dinner and drove across France - Le Mans to the Alps doesn't have a readily obvious motorway route so i took the A and B roads as the crow flies. I drove for 6 hours and made it Auxerre, booked into a hotel around 1 am and hit the road again around 530am.
That drive was full of tree lined long roads, not a car in sight, orange sunset, windows and sunroof open, warm temeperatures...great drive.
The next day was just as good. Setting off at 530am i made it to Chamonix, dumped my stuff and made it to Geneva airport on time. Great crisp early morning air - even bad coffee at the service stations tasted great - stunning scenery and a lot of miles to cover.
Two days of great driving memories - and thats not including the trackday.
Cheers
Ajit.
I've only had my RS just over a year. But last May after 2 days at Spa we decided to go to the Ring. We had a convoy with a 964 RS (mit Motec), GT3 RS, rep. 1973 RS (with 993 engine), Boxster S, Ferrari 355 on a lovely day initially at 150 MPH on the motorway, but then we peeled off onto those lush country roads for the second half of the journey to get to the Ring. Great day. Sunny, chilled out, good cars and company.
Edited to add.....I had some equally memorable drives in my Boxster S when I had that....but for different reasons. I was getting to know a few different young ladies that summer. Drives to the coast to get an ice cream after a posh lunch were very agreeable with the hood down and bird in-tow.
>> Edited by johnny senna on Wednesday 1st February 10:25
Edited to add.....I had some equally memorable drives in my Boxster S when I had that....but for different reasons. I was getting to know a few different young ladies that summer. Drives to the coast to get an ice cream after a posh lunch were very agreeable with the hood down and bird in-tow.
>> Edited by johnny senna on Wednesday 1st February 10:25
mutt k said:
The first drive home from the dealer
Mine too! Scenario.........Dad bought Porsche without telling Son. Dad takes Son to garage to go for a 'test drive'.
This was great. My lad (aged 10) is indeed becoming a true porker nut and the day we went to collect my first Porsche he was under the illusion that it was for an hour long test drive. All the staff at Spec Cars were in on it and taking that first drive was truly memorable. It was the typical "have you heard the engine dad?" and lots of inquisitve button touching and looking around (for more buttons). "Do we have to take it back Dad?" was asked several times with the response "of course we do!"
So, after driving for all of around 20 mins the urge to break the news was simply too much, not to mention trying to disguise the ever increasing grin on me chops, so I had to give in and tell all. Even so, with a look of dis-belief on his face he said "you are joking aren't you?"
What a day!
c2look said:
The first drive home from the dealer
Mine too! Scenario.........Dad bought Porsche without telling Son. Dad takes Son to garage to go for a 'test drive'.
This was great. My lad (aged 10) is indeed becoming a true porker nut and the day we went to collect my first Porsche he was under the illusion that it was for an hour long test drive. All the staff at Spec Cars were in on it and taking that first drive was truly memorable. It was the typical "have you heard the engine dad?" and lots of inquisitve button touching and looking around (for more buttons). "Do we have to take it back Dad?" was asked several times with the response "of course we do!"
So, after driving for all of around 20 mins the urge to break the news was simply too much, not to mention trying to disguise the ever increasing grin on me chops, so I had to give in and tell all. Even so, with a look of dis-belief on his face he said "you are joking aren't you?"
What a day!
I really like that!
c2look said:
Mine too! Scenario.........Dad bought Porsche without telling Son. Dad takes Son to garage to go for a 'test drive'.
This was great. My lad (aged 10) is indeed becoming a true porker nut and the day we went to collect my first Porsche he was under the illusion that it was for an hour long test drive. All the staff at Spec Cars were in on it and taking that first drive was truly memorable. It was the typical "have you heard the engine dad?" and lots of inquisitve button touching and looking around (for more buttons). "Do we have to take it back Dad?" was asked several times with the response "of course we do!"
So, after driving for all of around 20 mins the urge to break the news was simply too much, not to mention trying to disguise the ever increasing grin on me chops, so I had to give in and tell all. Even so, with a look of dis-belief on his face he said "you are joking aren't you?"
What a day!
I wish I had the patience to do that. I took my son to pick up the car and we both nearly pee'd ourselves with excitement on the first drive. Taking him to Le Mans with me this year, I'm sure that will be the best drive ever for me. really looking forward to it
ops:Does being a passenger count?
sod you if it doesnt!
Early 90's my first trip to the ring. Passenger in a 964RS in a 5 911 convoy, crossing the continent at the kind of speed that was intended for these cars.
..do remember thinking that we'd get shot at when we all took different 'boothes' at the belgian border and then exited them with plenty of gusto!!
another image that sits with me is watching the car in front of us take off as he hit the expantion slats onthe viaducts...
f!*king amazing!
sod you if it doesnt!
Early 90's my first trip to the ring. Passenger in a 964RS in a 5 911 convoy, crossing the continent at the kind of speed that was intended for these cars.
..do remember thinking that we'd get shot at when we all took different 'boothes' at the belgian border and then exited them with plenty of gusto!!
another image that sits with me is watching the car in front of us take off as he hit the expantion slats onthe viaducts...
f!*king amazing!
johnny senna said:
The first drive home from the dealer
Mine too! Scenario.........Dad bought Porsche without telling Son. Dad takes Son to garage to go for a 'test drive'.
This was great. My lad (aged 10) is indeed becoming a true porker nut and the day we went to collect my first Porsche he was under the illusion that it was for an hour long test drive. All the staff at Spec Cars were in on it and taking that first drive was truly memorable. It was the typical "have you heard the engine dad?" and lots of inquisitve button touching and looking around (for more buttons). "Do we have to take it back Dad?" was asked several times with the response "of course we do!"
So, after driving for all of around 20 mins the urge to break the news was simply too much, not to mention trying to disguise the ever increasing grin on me chops, so I had to give in and tell all. Even so, with a look of dis-belief on his face he said "you are joking aren't you?"
What a day!
I really like that!
That is one of the best posts I've read for a long time.
And to be clear I'm not referring to Johnny's!
Probably hundreds, shrinking violets us porsche drivers, don't want to share or shout!
Well, my drive back from the Alps (continuing the above story) was a top gear-esque race before Top Gear did it. Dropped the wife and kids off at geneva airport at 5am, drove straight for calais and the tunnel - stopping only when fuel ran out and for coffees. Great drive again. Made it to calais by midday.
They had a plane delay, we both ended up getting stuck in the same rush on the M25 and got home not long after each other!
Ajit
Well, my drive back from the Alps (continuing the above story) was a top gear-esque race before Top Gear did it. Dropped the wife and kids off at geneva airport at 5am, drove straight for calais and the tunnel - stopping only when fuel ran out and for coffees. Great drive again. Made it to calais by midday.
They had a plane delay, we both ended up getting stuck in the same rush on the M25 and got home not long after each other!
Ajit
Hope you don't mind, but I love road trips and, if anyone is interested, here is the diary note of mine "trip of a life time from two and a half years ago when I had the TVR. I since have done the Spanish leg again last August in the Ferrari and who knows, may do it again next year in the Porsche ... oh, which finally took up residence in my garage today Like I said, sorry it not a Porsche, but it was a great drive 
Costa Del Sol or bust!
This is a short diary of my road trip to Spain last August – probably, barring marriage and the birth of my daughter, the best experience of my life so far.
Friday 8th August 2003:
Everyone at home, work, on Pistonheads even, must have been thoroughly fed up with me banging on about my trip down to Nerja on the Costa Del Sol in my TVR Griffith 500 but, the day had finally come.
I was up at 4.30 on the Friday to see Vicki (wife), Gabby (18 week old daughter) and Vic’s mum off in a taxi from our home on the edge of the Yorkshire Pennines to Manchester airport. They would reach the villa about 11 o’clock that morning. All being well, I would reach it at about 8pm on the Sunday!
The boot of the Griff was loaded up with a couple of holdalls, camera bag, tool kits, bag of spares, spare wheel, roof panel, about 3 months supply of baby food (!), a fax machine for the villa (!!) and Gabby’s play gym (!!!) folded flat into it’s clear carry bag I hasten to add. I left work in Manchester about 3 o’clock in the afternoon for the anticipated 6 hour drive down to Folkestone, where I was booked in to the Travel Inn. Sent on my way by about 20 of the guys hanging out of the first floor windows waving white tissues and shouting Bon Voyage was just the start of a fantastic trip!
On the way to Folkestone I was surprised only to see three TVRs, two Chimearas on the M6/M1 and then a lovely V8 S on the Dartford bridge. He seemed a little perplexed at this nutter in a red Griff shouting something like “Hey, how’s it going”, with a stupid grin on his face.
After grabbing 4 hours sleep I was up at 02.30 ready to catch the 04.20 Eurostar train across to Calais. This was a new experience in itself and, I have to say, very quick and efficient. 40 minutes after setting off, you’re in France. I filled up with super unleaded at the Eurostar terminal and left Calais at 06.30 local time, on a very foggy morning… the top was still down mind you. Fog or no fog, I wasn’t driving all this way to put the roof on!
Within minutes on the auto-route I started to notice the looks. Cars would go by and faces would be pressed to the windows, then look at the nose of the car to see what it was. Not knowing just how strict the speed limit laws were, I just settled at a steady 80, content in the knowledge that if enough cars were overtaking me, I should be ok. And anyway, I just wanted the car to have a nice steady run, no traumas, no flogging it to death (as if I could if I tried!).
I have to say, the roads are brilliant. Even with a reasonable amount of traffic, it all just flows along. I reached Paris in about 2 hours and managed, with only one missed slip road, to find my way round the ring road. Traffic was a bit slow out of the city, they really do need an M25 equivalent, and it was as we were all crawling along, that one guy leant out of his window and shouted, “what engeeen is it?” he seemed to be suitably impressed by 5 litres as he gave a surprised nod and a thumbs up.
It was now 9 o’clock in the morning, the fog had long since cleared and the temperature was rising fairly quickly. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to stop unless I had to. This meant every tank of petrol, or around 240 miles. At the first stop, just north of Orleans, I took about 30 minutes to have a bite to eat and a coffee, and popped the bonnet of the car just to let some of the excess heat clear. I did this as a matter of course every time I stopped as these engines do build up a hell of a lot of heat.
Anyone going through France will find that some of the best fun to be had is at the Peages, the toll roads. There are about four or five stretches from Calais down to the Pyrenees, ranging from 25 miles, to 225 miles long. The total cost is around £35 one way north to south. However, imagine a three lane auto-route going into about fifteen lanes of toll booths, then back to three lanes a quarter of a mile further on. Now at best, only three or so cars are going to be leaving the toll booths at precisely the same time, so what would you do with all that open road in front of you, hmm? Put it another way… the standing 1/4 mile time listed in the handbook isn’t that far out… and the sound!
I had a front loader CD player and a carefully selected supply of 24 CDs with me, so I was having a ball. Top down, sun blazing down, steady 85/90, great roads, free flowing traffic, and music belting out with no-one to tell me to turn it down… this MUST be what TVRs were made for!
By the time the fuel needle was next pointing towards empty, the outside temperature was easily upwards of 100 degrees, combining with the heat from the engine to make the cockpit temperature somewhere about 120, but do you know what, I really didn’t care! The only temperature I was bothered about was that of the engine, and with the new Modwise 2-stage cooling kit fitted, that was sitting quite happily between 80 and 87.
Then my heart missed a beat. Just as I passed the 5km to go to the next service station the engine started faltering slightly under load… uh oh, please car, be nice, just be a bit warm, or a bit low on fuel, just please don’t let me down, I’m having too much fun.
I pulled into the station and popped the bonnet, not really thinking anything too drastic was wrong, and spotted the problem in about 10 seconds – the tiny vacuum pipe had come loose. Now I’ve been here before many years ago with an old Renault 5, and believe me, such a simple thing can absolutely ruin the car’s running. I popped the pipe back on, taped it for good measure and that was that, the only maintenance apart from oil and fuel needed in 4000 miles.
Every time I stopped, people were interested in the car. I mean, you don’t just ‘hardly’ see them in France and Spain, I think you would be lucky if you ‘ever’ saw a TVR (Le Mans week excepted). The French and Spanish would look in genuine friendly interest, and the English with a nod of acknowledgement. As if they were happy to see a British sports car being driven so far from home. Whatever they thought, it made for a fantastic feeling of well being and pride, a feeling that I just don’t think I would have got from any other car.
It was about 6 o’clock when I had my first sight of the Pyrenees, and what an incredible sight. And then it rained. In fact, the heavens opened. They only opened for about 5 minutes, but boy did they open. I spent an optimistic few seconds wondering whether I would stay dry if I went fast enough, but with the cars in front creating wakes, that wasn’t going to be an option. Hurriedly pulling up under a far too narrow bridge, out of the boot came the couple of holdalls, camera bag, tool kits, bag of spares, 3 months supply of baby food, fax machine, Gabby’s play gym, then finally the roof panel! By the time I got back in the car with the roof on, it had stopped raining and I was like a bedraggled dog. But I was laughing!
I spent the night in Lourdes, which is a beautiful little town with plenty of restaurants and street bars. I don’t think I can ever remember a shower or a cold beer feeling quite so good. Looking out from my balcony at the Pyrenees towering away into the distance, I knew that the highlight of the journey was just about to start.
I left Lourdes at 8 o’clock with the sun up but not too hot yet. The roads leading to the first climb of the Col du Som are just beautiful, winding their way through green pastures, then suddenly turning a bend and rearing up into a 1 in 4. I can’t believe the amount of cyclists that were out at that time in the morning, all there to climb the famous Col du Aubisque, the riders’ names from so many Tours still painted on the road.
Looking down into the valleys as I climbed higher and higher, I came to opinion that this was possibly the most beautiful place I had ever been. Added to this, the glorious burble echoing behind me, the ease with which the car took the twists and climbs, the whole atmosphere… and I was as close to motoring heaven as I think I’ll ever get.
I reached the summit of the Col du Aubisque and pulled into a big open area, where a mixture of about twenty vehicles were parked , either motorhomes or camping. They were pretty intrigued to see what it was that they’d heard rumbling up the mountain and a few people came over for a closer look, one happily taking a picture for me to mark the occasion. The views really are stunning and the air so clear and pure it literally makes you feel like laughing out loud. If you get the chance, it is a must do drive.
I dropped down through the little villages of Laruns and les Eaux-Chandes and then up the other side on the final climb of the Col du Pourtalet. At one point I came up behind five cars and sat happily behind them for a minute or so as we climbed the edge of the mountain, then in the distance saw a long enough stretch of road with a perfect clear view. As we came round a right hander, I stuck the nose out to double check, dropped into second, and squeezed the throttle. It just flew… and the sound was incredible, 5000 revs echoing off the mountainside.
Five minutes later I was on the top of the Col du Pourtalet and through the border into Spain for the long drop down to Huesca and Zaragoza. It was very strange seeing the old border post completely empty, no passports, no customs, just a coffee and souvenir shop.
The main autovias in Spain are not quite as good as France, but still pretty good, and pretty empty, and pretty free! There is not one toll between the Pyrenees and Nerja, which I was quite surprised at as I travelled solely on the main autovias.
By this time it was late morning and the sun was scorching once again. As I left Zaragoza heading towards Madrid I picked up a silver Spanish VX220 and between us we had a fine old time, tearing across the plains and over mountain ranges, all on superb wide open roads. Probably the two fastest cars on the road between Zaragoza and Madrid, and both British!
I stopped for lunch about 2 o’clock and, when I filled up with petrol, was accosted by four Spanish lads in their early twenties. With a combination of my pigeon Espanol and their pigeon Ingles, they managed to determine the big three… How old? How much? How fast? And, even though they finished filling up before me, they refused to budge until I started it up. This was accompanied by a big cheer. I guess a 5 litre V8 sounds the same in any language.
I reached Granada at about 6 o’clock, after some spectacular roads through the mountain range just to the north. It must be the one of the most scenic stretches of motorway in Europe. At times, I couldn’t see the opposite carriageway as it was on the other side of a chasm and about 150 feet below me.
This time I saw the rain coming and on the Granada ring road I stopped to put the roof up. I had not been going for more than a couple of minutes when my wheels suddenly disappeared from under me or, put another way, they sure weren’t going the way I was pointing them. My first thought was that a front tyre had blown, throwing the whole car’s balance and steering out. As my second thought…”Christ, this is going to spin about three times, bounce off the central wall and really spoil the holiday” flashed in and out of my head in less than a split second, I instinctively let off the gas and, as the car was still pointing roughly forwards, let my hands go light on the wheel. I have no idea whether I did the right thing or not, but I know it certainly wasn’t totally wrong, as the car straightened itself out and carried on benignly as before. Not so me! I pulled over, heart still going ten to the dozen, and checked all the tyres and all the wheels. Everything was fine. I can only assume that I hit a patch of diesel, or a slippery stretch of road from the earlier rain shower.
I headed south from Granada down to the coast at Salobrena. I would have liked to have found the back road down to Otivar and Almunecar, but missed the turning, so followed the main road. Half an hour later I was down onto the coast road and driving towards Nerja, on roads that I have driven so many times before and so many times thought about driving them in a car like this. It felt so good and I popped the roof off for the last half hour run in.
I reached the villa at 7.30pm, twelve and a half hours after leaving Lourdes, having stopped for three breaks of 15, 30 and 15 minutes. I was hot, sweaty, dusty, a little bit weary… but as Vicki came to the gate to greet me with little Gabby, boy did it feel good to have finally made it.
After a couple of days in Nerja I took the car down to see Alejandro at Autos Nerja, the guy that usually looks after us with hire cars. Alejandro is a real car enthusiast and straight away asked if I could take him for a ride. Twenty seconds later, with the office door locked, he jumped in and we were off. We went up towards Maro about 5 km out of Nerja so that we could come back round the autovia and through a few tunnels. Understanding perfectly the logic of letting any traffic get well ahead, then dropping into third and flooring it, he had never heard a sound like it and, judging by the grin on his face, was enjoying every minute.
You can imagine his reaction when I pulled over and said to him, “Here you go, your turn!” Being a passenger in my own car while it was being driven pretty hard and fast by a good driver was nearly as much fun as driving the thing! We came down the old coast road, feeling the back end shifting ever so slightly a couple of times, but once again, seeing the sheer enjoyment on Alejandro’s face, well, it went some way to making up for the incident with one of his cars and a canoe a couple of months earlier!
We next saw Alejandro a few nights later in a restaurant and, when he came over to say “Hi” to Vicki, he beamed as he explained to her that it had been, “a very emotionally experience” for him.
A few days later I got up early and left the house about 8am for a one and a half hour drive up into the mountains. Well, that was how it started, but with one missed side road, and climbing higher into the mountains, it seemed a shame to turn back, and I knew I’d end up on the main Malaga – Granada road eventually. The good news was that I managed to find the back road that drops from Granada, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, down to the coast at Almuneca, via Otiva. I had been told that this was a spectacular road and it lived up to all expectations. The road dropped and twisted down through the heart of the mountains, the exhaust note crackling and popping like a WWII Spitfire. As you pass through the tiny villages it’s as if all the occupants rise from their slumber to see what this rumbling, spitting monster is that has shattered the tranquillity. Yet again though, all the looks are of wonder and amusement, no animosity anywhere. Four hours later I got back to the villa. Unsurprisingly, Vicki did not believe for one moment that I had only intended to be 90 minutes!
During the remainder of the holiday we took a couple of trips along the coast to our favourite beach, on which Vicki commented after 15 minutes in the car, “how the hell did you stand this heat for 13 hours?!” In some respects it was a shame that it was so blisteringly hot, as we didn’t use the car as much as we would if it had been a little cooler.
Most evenings we would return from town about 1am, leave Gabby at the villa with Vic’s mum and dad, then drive down the hill for a couple of coffees and Amarettos at one of the beach front bars. Once again, the car caused a fair amount of interest from the locals as well as the English visitors. Lets face it, you don’t expect to come across a TVR at 2am in the morning parked outside a bar on Nerja’s Burriana Beach!
After ten days in Nerja I set off back at 6.30am on the Thursday, aiming for the 10pm Friday night Chunnel crossing. I hadn’t really been looking forward to the return trip, mainly because I knew how long it was going to be and, well, it’s just never the same going home is it?
I went a slightly different route back, heading North from Madrid to cross the border via San Sebastian and Biarritz instead of going over the Pyrenees. This was a really quick run with some lovely small mountain ranges north of Madrid and once again, good, fast, empty autovias. So good are the roads that it is easy, only in theory you understand, to hit speeds in the region of 150 mph, however, one might risk losing their baseball cap if they tried it!
After over an hour getting across the border on the coast road, take my advice and take the motorway, I reached Biarritz about 4.30 and started looking for a hotel. It was a nightmare, so busy, nowhere to stop or park, and none of the hotels had car parks in front of them. Eventually I gave up and headed a few miles further north to a little place called Bayonne. This is a lovely little town with lots of bars and restaurants along the side of the canal and I can highly recommend it for a stop over.
Leaving Bayonne I felt a tinge of sadness, as I always do, about leaving Spain behind. This was soon replaced with the general feeling of elation that driving that beautiful noisy red car on the open road always gives me. The sun was out, but not too hot, the car was burbling along like a dream and after what seemed no time at all I was approaching Calais.
I pulled up at the check-in window at 5.30pm, just in time to catch the 5.55 Chunnel, four hours earlier than expected.
I pulled into the Eurostar carriage and, by habit, popped the bonnet a few inches. Five minutes later the steward came along with a very worried face, spotted the car and looked a little more relieved as she asked me to close the bonnet. Apparently the heat from the engine had set off the train’s heat detectors!
Reaching England at 17.30 UK time I was too late to cancel my Travel Inn booking, or I would have quite happily carried on and driven up to Yorkshire. As it was, I went down and sat by the harbour at Folkestone, fending off seagulls with my fish and chips wrapping and, as I gazed at the White Cliffs of Dover for the first time, reflected on all the fantastic sights and experiences of the amazing road trip I had just completed.
I then looked across at the Griff, sat there patiently waiting for me to turn the key once again, and realised that, for all the pre-trip doubts and reliability worries, this car had looked after me impeccably over two weeks and 4,000 miles.
TVRs… you just gotta love ‘em.
Thanks for reading. No matter what the car, if you get the chance to do an epic road trip, do it, the memories will stay with you forever - it's what our cars were made for.
Like I said, sorry it not a Porsche, but it was a great drive Costa Del Sol or bust!
This is a short diary of my road trip to Spain last August – probably, barring marriage and the birth of my daughter, the best experience of my life so far.
Friday 8th August 2003:
Everyone at home, work, on Pistonheads even, must have been thoroughly fed up with me banging on about my trip down to Nerja on the Costa Del Sol in my TVR Griffith 500 but, the day had finally come.
I was up at 4.30 on the Friday to see Vicki (wife), Gabby (18 week old daughter) and Vic’s mum off in a taxi from our home on the edge of the Yorkshire Pennines to Manchester airport. They would reach the villa about 11 o’clock that morning. All being well, I would reach it at about 8pm on the Sunday!
The boot of the Griff was loaded up with a couple of holdalls, camera bag, tool kits, bag of spares, spare wheel, roof panel, about 3 months supply of baby food (!), a fax machine for the villa (!!) and Gabby’s play gym (!!!) folded flat into it’s clear carry bag I hasten to add. I left work in Manchester about 3 o’clock in the afternoon for the anticipated 6 hour drive down to Folkestone, where I was booked in to the Travel Inn. Sent on my way by about 20 of the guys hanging out of the first floor windows waving white tissues and shouting Bon Voyage was just the start of a fantastic trip!
On the way to Folkestone I was surprised only to see three TVRs, two Chimearas on the M6/M1 and then a lovely V8 S on the Dartford bridge. He seemed a little perplexed at this nutter in a red Griff shouting something like “Hey, how’s it going”, with a stupid grin on his face.
After grabbing 4 hours sleep I was up at 02.30 ready to catch the 04.20 Eurostar train across to Calais. This was a new experience in itself and, I have to say, very quick and efficient. 40 minutes after setting off, you’re in France. I filled up with super unleaded at the Eurostar terminal and left Calais at 06.30 local time, on a very foggy morning… the top was still down mind you. Fog or no fog, I wasn’t driving all this way to put the roof on!
Within minutes on the auto-route I started to notice the looks. Cars would go by and faces would be pressed to the windows, then look at the nose of the car to see what it was. Not knowing just how strict the speed limit laws were, I just settled at a steady 80, content in the knowledge that if enough cars were overtaking me, I should be ok. And anyway, I just wanted the car to have a nice steady run, no traumas, no flogging it to death (as if I could if I tried!).
I have to say, the roads are brilliant. Even with a reasonable amount of traffic, it all just flows along. I reached Paris in about 2 hours and managed, with only one missed slip road, to find my way round the ring road. Traffic was a bit slow out of the city, they really do need an M25 equivalent, and it was as we were all crawling along, that one guy leant out of his window and shouted, “what engeeen is it?” he seemed to be suitably impressed by 5 litres as he gave a surprised nod and a thumbs up.
It was now 9 o’clock in the morning, the fog had long since cleared and the temperature was rising fairly quickly. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to stop unless I had to. This meant every tank of petrol, or around 240 miles. At the first stop, just north of Orleans, I took about 30 minutes to have a bite to eat and a coffee, and popped the bonnet of the car just to let some of the excess heat clear. I did this as a matter of course every time I stopped as these engines do build up a hell of a lot of heat.
Anyone going through France will find that some of the best fun to be had is at the Peages, the toll roads. There are about four or five stretches from Calais down to the Pyrenees, ranging from 25 miles, to 225 miles long. The total cost is around £35 one way north to south. However, imagine a three lane auto-route going into about fifteen lanes of toll booths, then back to three lanes a quarter of a mile further on. Now at best, only three or so cars are going to be leaving the toll booths at precisely the same time, so what would you do with all that open road in front of you, hmm? Put it another way… the standing 1/4 mile time listed in the handbook isn’t that far out… and the sound!
I had a front loader CD player and a carefully selected supply of 24 CDs with me, so I was having a ball. Top down, sun blazing down, steady 85/90, great roads, free flowing traffic, and music belting out with no-one to tell me to turn it down… this MUST be what TVRs were made for!
By the time the fuel needle was next pointing towards empty, the outside temperature was easily upwards of 100 degrees, combining with the heat from the engine to make the cockpit temperature somewhere about 120, but do you know what, I really didn’t care! The only temperature I was bothered about was that of the engine, and with the new Modwise 2-stage cooling kit fitted, that was sitting quite happily between 80 and 87.
Then my heart missed a beat. Just as I passed the 5km to go to the next service station the engine started faltering slightly under load… uh oh, please car, be nice, just be a bit warm, or a bit low on fuel, just please don’t let me down, I’m having too much fun.
I pulled into the station and popped the bonnet, not really thinking anything too drastic was wrong, and spotted the problem in about 10 seconds – the tiny vacuum pipe had come loose. Now I’ve been here before many years ago with an old Renault 5, and believe me, such a simple thing can absolutely ruin the car’s running. I popped the pipe back on, taped it for good measure and that was that, the only maintenance apart from oil and fuel needed in 4000 miles.
Every time I stopped, people were interested in the car. I mean, you don’t just ‘hardly’ see them in France and Spain, I think you would be lucky if you ‘ever’ saw a TVR (Le Mans week excepted). The French and Spanish would look in genuine friendly interest, and the English with a nod of acknowledgement. As if they were happy to see a British sports car being driven so far from home. Whatever they thought, it made for a fantastic feeling of well being and pride, a feeling that I just don’t think I would have got from any other car.
It was about 6 o’clock when I had my first sight of the Pyrenees, and what an incredible sight. And then it rained. In fact, the heavens opened. They only opened for about 5 minutes, but boy did they open. I spent an optimistic few seconds wondering whether I would stay dry if I went fast enough, but with the cars in front creating wakes, that wasn’t going to be an option. Hurriedly pulling up under a far too narrow bridge, out of the boot came the couple of holdalls, camera bag, tool kits, bag of spares, 3 months supply of baby food, fax machine, Gabby’s play gym, then finally the roof panel! By the time I got back in the car with the roof on, it had stopped raining and I was like a bedraggled dog. But I was laughing!
I spent the night in Lourdes, which is a beautiful little town with plenty of restaurants and street bars. I don’t think I can ever remember a shower or a cold beer feeling quite so good. Looking out from my balcony at the Pyrenees towering away into the distance, I knew that the highlight of the journey was just about to start.
I left Lourdes at 8 o’clock with the sun up but not too hot yet. The roads leading to the first climb of the Col du Som are just beautiful, winding their way through green pastures, then suddenly turning a bend and rearing up into a 1 in 4. I can’t believe the amount of cyclists that were out at that time in the morning, all there to climb the famous Col du Aubisque, the riders’ names from so many Tours still painted on the road.
Looking down into the valleys as I climbed higher and higher, I came to opinion that this was possibly the most beautiful place I had ever been. Added to this, the glorious burble echoing behind me, the ease with which the car took the twists and climbs, the whole atmosphere… and I was as close to motoring heaven as I think I’ll ever get.
I reached the summit of the Col du Aubisque and pulled into a big open area, where a mixture of about twenty vehicles were parked , either motorhomes or camping. They were pretty intrigued to see what it was that they’d heard rumbling up the mountain and a few people came over for a closer look, one happily taking a picture for me to mark the occasion. The views really are stunning and the air so clear and pure it literally makes you feel like laughing out loud. If you get the chance, it is a must do drive.
I dropped down through the little villages of Laruns and les Eaux-Chandes and then up the other side on the final climb of the Col du Pourtalet. At one point I came up behind five cars and sat happily behind them for a minute or so as we climbed the edge of the mountain, then in the distance saw a long enough stretch of road with a perfect clear view. As we came round a right hander, I stuck the nose out to double check, dropped into second, and squeezed the throttle. It just flew… and the sound was incredible, 5000 revs echoing off the mountainside.
Five minutes later I was on the top of the Col du Pourtalet and through the border into Spain for the long drop down to Huesca and Zaragoza. It was very strange seeing the old border post completely empty, no passports, no customs, just a coffee and souvenir shop.
The main autovias in Spain are not quite as good as France, but still pretty good, and pretty empty, and pretty free! There is not one toll between the Pyrenees and Nerja, which I was quite surprised at as I travelled solely on the main autovias.
By this time it was late morning and the sun was scorching once again. As I left Zaragoza heading towards Madrid I picked up a silver Spanish VX220 and between us we had a fine old time, tearing across the plains and over mountain ranges, all on superb wide open roads. Probably the two fastest cars on the road between Zaragoza and Madrid, and both British!
I stopped for lunch about 2 o’clock and, when I filled up with petrol, was accosted by four Spanish lads in their early twenties. With a combination of my pigeon Espanol and their pigeon Ingles, they managed to determine the big three… How old? How much? How fast? And, even though they finished filling up before me, they refused to budge until I started it up. This was accompanied by a big cheer. I guess a 5 litre V8 sounds the same in any language.
I reached Granada at about 6 o’clock, after some spectacular roads through the mountain range just to the north. It must be the one of the most scenic stretches of motorway in Europe. At times, I couldn’t see the opposite carriageway as it was on the other side of a chasm and about 150 feet below me.
This time I saw the rain coming and on the Granada ring road I stopped to put the roof up. I had not been going for more than a couple of minutes when my wheels suddenly disappeared from under me or, put another way, they sure weren’t going the way I was pointing them. My first thought was that a front tyre had blown, throwing the whole car’s balance and steering out. As my second thought…”Christ, this is going to spin about three times, bounce off the central wall and really spoil the holiday” flashed in and out of my head in less than a split second, I instinctively let off the gas and, as the car was still pointing roughly forwards, let my hands go light on the wheel. I have no idea whether I did the right thing or not, but I know it certainly wasn’t totally wrong, as the car straightened itself out and carried on benignly as before. Not so me! I pulled over, heart still going ten to the dozen, and checked all the tyres and all the wheels. Everything was fine. I can only assume that I hit a patch of diesel, or a slippery stretch of road from the earlier rain shower.
I headed south from Granada down to the coast at Salobrena. I would have liked to have found the back road down to Otivar and Almunecar, but missed the turning, so followed the main road. Half an hour later I was down onto the coast road and driving towards Nerja, on roads that I have driven so many times before and so many times thought about driving them in a car like this. It felt so good and I popped the roof off for the last half hour run in.
I reached the villa at 7.30pm, twelve and a half hours after leaving Lourdes, having stopped for three breaks of 15, 30 and 15 minutes. I was hot, sweaty, dusty, a little bit weary… but as Vicki came to the gate to greet me with little Gabby, boy did it feel good to have finally made it.
After a couple of days in Nerja I took the car down to see Alejandro at Autos Nerja, the guy that usually looks after us with hire cars. Alejandro is a real car enthusiast and straight away asked if I could take him for a ride. Twenty seconds later, with the office door locked, he jumped in and we were off. We went up towards Maro about 5 km out of Nerja so that we could come back round the autovia and through a few tunnels. Understanding perfectly the logic of letting any traffic get well ahead, then dropping into third and flooring it, he had never heard a sound like it and, judging by the grin on his face, was enjoying every minute.
You can imagine his reaction when I pulled over and said to him, “Here you go, your turn!” Being a passenger in my own car while it was being driven pretty hard and fast by a good driver was nearly as much fun as driving the thing! We came down the old coast road, feeling the back end shifting ever so slightly a couple of times, but once again, seeing the sheer enjoyment on Alejandro’s face, well, it went some way to making up for the incident with one of his cars and a canoe a couple of months earlier!
We next saw Alejandro a few nights later in a restaurant and, when he came over to say “Hi” to Vicki, he beamed as he explained to her that it had been, “a very emotionally experience” for him.
A few days later I got up early and left the house about 8am for a one and a half hour drive up into the mountains. Well, that was how it started, but with one missed side road, and climbing higher into the mountains, it seemed a shame to turn back, and I knew I’d end up on the main Malaga – Granada road eventually. The good news was that I managed to find the back road that drops from Granada, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, down to the coast at Almuneca, via Otiva. I had been told that this was a spectacular road and it lived up to all expectations. The road dropped and twisted down through the heart of the mountains, the exhaust note crackling and popping like a WWII Spitfire. As you pass through the tiny villages it’s as if all the occupants rise from their slumber to see what this rumbling, spitting monster is that has shattered the tranquillity. Yet again though, all the looks are of wonder and amusement, no animosity anywhere. Four hours later I got back to the villa. Unsurprisingly, Vicki did not believe for one moment that I had only intended to be 90 minutes!
During the remainder of the holiday we took a couple of trips along the coast to our favourite beach, on which Vicki commented after 15 minutes in the car, “how the hell did you stand this heat for 13 hours?!” In some respects it was a shame that it was so blisteringly hot, as we didn’t use the car as much as we would if it had been a little cooler.
Most evenings we would return from town about 1am, leave Gabby at the villa with Vic’s mum and dad, then drive down the hill for a couple of coffees and Amarettos at one of the beach front bars. Once again, the car caused a fair amount of interest from the locals as well as the English visitors. Lets face it, you don’t expect to come across a TVR at 2am in the morning parked outside a bar on Nerja’s Burriana Beach!
After ten days in Nerja I set off back at 6.30am on the Thursday, aiming for the 10pm Friday night Chunnel crossing. I hadn’t really been looking forward to the return trip, mainly because I knew how long it was going to be and, well, it’s just never the same going home is it?
I went a slightly different route back, heading North from Madrid to cross the border via San Sebastian and Biarritz instead of going over the Pyrenees. This was a really quick run with some lovely small mountain ranges north of Madrid and once again, good, fast, empty autovias. So good are the roads that it is easy, only in theory you understand, to hit speeds in the region of 150 mph, however, one might risk losing their baseball cap if they tried it!
After over an hour getting across the border on the coast road, take my advice and take the motorway, I reached Biarritz about 4.30 and started looking for a hotel. It was a nightmare, so busy, nowhere to stop or park, and none of the hotels had car parks in front of them. Eventually I gave up and headed a few miles further north to a little place called Bayonne. This is a lovely little town with lots of bars and restaurants along the side of the canal and I can highly recommend it for a stop over.
Leaving Bayonne I felt a tinge of sadness, as I always do, about leaving Spain behind. This was soon replaced with the general feeling of elation that driving that beautiful noisy red car on the open road always gives me. The sun was out, but not too hot, the car was burbling along like a dream and after what seemed no time at all I was approaching Calais.
I pulled up at the check-in window at 5.30pm, just in time to catch the 5.55 Chunnel, four hours earlier than expected.
I pulled into the Eurostar carriage and, by habit, popped the bonnet a few inches. Five minutes later the steward came along with a very worried face, spotted the car and looked a little more relieved as she asked me to close the bonnet. Apparently the heat from the engine had set off the train’s heat detectors!
Reaching England at 17.30 UK time I was too late to cancel my Travel Inn booking, or I would have quite happily carried on and driven up to Yorkshire. As it was, I went down and sat by the harbour at Folkestone, fending off seagulls with my fish and chips wrapping and, as I gazed at the White Cliffs of Dover for the first time, reflected on all the fantastic sights and experiences of the amazing road trip I had just completed.
I then looked across at the Griff, sat there patiently waiting for me to turn the key once again, and realised that, for all the pre-trip doubts and reliability worries, this car had looked after me impeccably over two weeks and 4,000 miles.
TVRs… you just gotta love ‘em.
Thanks for reading. No matter what the car, if you get the chance to do an epic road trip, do it, the memories will stay with you forever - it's what our cars were made for.
Probably my first run down to Le Mans last year, me and my mate Jon not knowing what to expect, getting down onto the M20 and finding every other car was something special, a convoy of 5 911 turbos coming through at speed, then a guy on the Eurotunnel getting out of his Continental GT to tell me the best car he'd owned had been a 928.
Heading into France I was able to test the 928's abilities as a continental mile muncher as I ran up to 150mph cruising for mile after mile, it was effortless. Playing with an Ultima south of Rouen, him flying past me filming me, then waving me through to film him on a flypast.
And finally getting into Le Mans and queueing as the sun set to get through to the Porsche Curves and the PCGB campsite to be greeted like heroes.
It got better, as the sun went down and we hurriedly pitched the tent the night time practice started, what a noise
The 928 never missed a beat, behaved impeccably and held its own amongst much dearer company. I will miss it when it goes Shamless Plug
Heading into France I was able to test the 928's abilities as a continental mile muncher as I ran up to 150mph cruising for mile after mile, it was effortless. Playing with an Ultima south of Rouen, him flying past me filming me, then waving me through to film him on a flypast.
And finally getting into Le Mans and queueing as the sun set to get through to the Porsche Curves and the PCGB campsite to be greeted like heroes.
It got better, as the sun went down and we hurriedly pitched the tent the night time practice started, what a noise
The 928 never missed a beat, behaved impeccably and held its own amongst much dearer company. I will miss it when it goes Shamless Plug
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